A Gentle Passing
by ProtoChan
Summary: Alice's Papa has done everything and more for her. She may have never been freed from the tower, but she had his love. But all good things must come to an end, and saying goodbye, no matter what, hits you like a punch to the gut. Canon divergence - What if Gothel never came back to the tower after escaping?


**Summary: Alice's Papa has done everything and more for her. She may have never been freed from the tower, but she had his love. But all good things must come to an end, and saying goodbye, no matter what, hits you like a punch to the gut. Canon divergence - What if Gothel never came back to the tower after escaping? (Alice's POV)  
**

 ** **The story you are about to read is a little piece of canon divergence concerned with what would have happened if Gothel had never separated Killian and Alice, but Killian had been unsuccessful at freeing Alice from her imprisonment.**  
**

 **This was my final entry for Wish Hook week! I'm so glad that I got to be a part of it. Honestly, I'm a little surprised/proud of myself for posting something everyday. That's a first for me!**

 **Trigger Warning: Major Character Death**

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The kettle's shrieking. **  
**

Best hush that.

It's whistle is fine by my ears, but these days, it seems to be hurting Papa's.

Who made it so a kettle had to be so loud anyway?

There's got to be a better system.

Maybe I'll just build one.

I pour our tea and bring it to Papa.

He's laying in bed. It's been days since he last got up, but I don't mind.

At least he's comfy.

It's been weeks since he's climbed up the tower last. After hearing him moan from his back aches from the last time, I had to force him to stay in place.

Thankfully, he wasn't spry nor argumentative enough to get his way.

Odd for him.

In all fairness though, it had been his fault for his pain. He was bringing so much up.

Fourteen jars of marmalade - sixteen, according to him, but two didn't survive the trip.

Six new outfits.

And an astounding twenty new books.

What was he honestly thinking?

Well, he isn't leaving the tower again in his condition - that much I'll make certain of.

I hope to let him go when he starts feeling better again.

The only problem is that I've yet to see the 'better.'

But it will happen. Of course, it will.

Papa thanks me. His voice is always soft, but these days, I can hardly hear him. But that's the good thing about living up in a tower, away from all else.

Nothing you can do but listen.

I tell him to wait for his tea to cool before sipping it. He agrees, and after a while, he shakily takes his cup and enjoys his first sips.

"We should invite Lady Poppingfield and make this one of our tea parties," Papa says, mostly through wheezes. There's a light in his voice and his grin as he makes the jest.

I can't help but smile.

"I don't know, Papa. Such a handsome man like yourself. She'd fall madly in love with you."

Papa winks. "Even among dolls, I'm still the envy of men."

We continue to sit and talk. As always, our jokes fly, one hundred per minute.

But the wheezing continues, and Papa's voice only gets fainter and more caught in his coughs. His breathing is shallow and his eyes glossy.

I've looked at our medicine supply before. Unfortunately, there's not much that can be done.

My attention drifts from Papa onto his condition as I try to think of an alternative solution.

Should I make him drink more water?

Should i stop giving him solid foods?

Should I just give him marmalade? Works out well enough for me. Not hard on the throat at all.

Another wheeze brings my focus back to Papa.

There are tears in his eyes.

"Papa," I ask, worried. "Is there something you need - something I could get you?"

He shakes his head as the tears continue to well.

"What's wrong?" I don't realize that my voice has gotten louder until I've already spoken. Papa's smile is gone and it's like a knife to the heart.

"I'm so sorry, Alice," he sobs. "I couldn't do it. All these years and I couldn't free you."

I feel tears prickling against my own eyes now.

"Papa, you've nothing to be sorry for," I assure him. My voice croaks a bit. "Now, stop. You're just being silly."

Dammit, I'm crying too.

Why is he bringing this up now?

"You did everything you could," I continue. "You -"

But he interrupts me.

I can count the times he's done that over the course of my 43 years alive on a single hand.

"I wish I could've brought you more books," he intercedes, "more marmalade, just…more."

"Papa, what are you talking about? Last time you brought all that stuff! It took six trips for you to bring it all up!"

"Just needed to ensure that you'll have everything you need and everything I can for you."

"But why in one trip?" I press. He looks at me - a pointed look.

Before anything else can be said. I blink.

I get it.

It's because he never expected to make another trip back down.

Thought he made it too easy when he succumbed to my nagging and agreed not to leave the tower.

Papa never gives in to my nagging.

It's the Jones stubbornness at its finest.

But why is he doing this? Why doesn't he think he'll make another trip?

…

No.

…

NO.

He must know that I've figured it out. His pointed look is gone, replaced by the look he gave me when he first taught me how to use the stove when I was 10. It's instructional, and his following words only add to that.

"Alice, the tower will bring food to you after I'm gone. And there's money underneath the bed should you ever require it. Maybe if a wizard come by, he can help you."

He's so calm as he speaks.

Why is he so bloody calm?

My whole body starts to shudder.

"No - no, Papa. You're fine."

Spilled tears still all over, Papa shakes his head.

"I'm not. I'm old, and I haven't gotten out of bed in nearly a week."

"You're just sick," I say, half-shouting. "You'll get better."

"I just want you to know that I love you."

"Stop talking like that!" I'm now actually shouting. "Stop talking like you're about to go away!"

I look Papa straight in the eyes. Mine are filled with resilience.

But that resilience abandons them as I take in Papa's eyes.

They're soft and kind - always soft and kind, they are - and there's a gentle truth and finality to them.

He knows his time is coming to an end.

And now I know it too.

I turn away. This is too much. I'm sobbing outright now and I can't stop shaking.

I'm shaking so much that I fear the tower will collapse from under us.

At least then we'd leave together.

But Papa wouldn't accept that - never before and especially not now.

"Please, Alice," he begs. "Stay with your father. Don't let me pass from this world without you in my sights."

My breathing and shaking are still hectic, but in that moment, I force them to settle.

I couldn't deny him the world itself with that look he's giving me.

We hold hands as I sit beside him once more. His are so cold, and his skin - once able to fit perfectly against his flesh and bones - is now looser. I squeeze a little tighter - not so tight that it could hurt him, but tight enough that hopefully, I could warm him up.

It doesn't work.

I feel despair overcoming me.

Papa's dying.

Why?

There are so many ways to expand upon that sentence, but for now, all that fills my mind and heart is just the one worded-question.

Why?

Papa sees me.

He always sees me.

"Smile for me?" His voice is such a quiet whisper. I can just barely hear him.

Nodding, I do just that. I make this the best and brightest smile I've ever given him, fighting that despair off like a pirate fights off an evil king. Memories of bedtime stories and evenings spent perfecting our sword fighting and tea parties and birthday celebrations and chess games - especially chess games - make it genuine.

How will I play chess without him?

The whole time I'm smiling and sitting, I'm pleading - nay, praying - to whoever could be listening from beyond. Papa's told me Gods exist. Maybe one of them can save him.

Apathy looks to be their answer to that hope.

For all my efforts, I'm treated to my Papa beaming, despite everything.

He has the greatest smile in the world.

I force the tears that well up in my eyes to back off.

Papa blinks, slowly - so slowly.

Everytime he does, it feels like an hour has passed to wait and see if he'll open them again.

"I love you, Alice." His words are like a single leaf in the wind on a stormy autumn day, but I catch it.

And I never let it go.

"I love you too, Papa," I respond - quick with my words as to not risk even the chance that he won't hear them. "Thank you. For everything."

His smile is weakened by forces stronger than even he, but it ultimately persists as he closes his eyes for the last time.


End file.
